


Do It, You Won't

by jesselaine1988 (reckluce)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Episode: s05e02 Good God Y'all!, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, M/M, Season 05, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-19 01:19:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15499107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reckluce/pseuds/jesselaine1988
Summary: Although he didn't understand the joke, Cas could tell when he was being made fun of. It irritated him. Castiel had been alive for millennia, he'd been captain of a Heavenly garrison, and yet Dean Winchester treated him like a child at every turn. It needled his pride, which was all the more upsetting given that an angel shouldn't be so easily goaded into sinning.And Pride, of course, was one of the big seven.





	Do It, You Won't

**1] Dare Me to Do Something Stupid** **  
** **  
** **Setting: Shortly after Season 5 ep 2 ("Good God, Y'all") and before Season 5 ep 3 ("Free to Be You and Me").** **  
**  
Dean drank a lot, but he rarely got _drunk_. As much as he might welcome the mindless bliss of a blackout, he couldn't afford to let his guard down like that on a regular basis. So, he settled for just enough whiskey to float him through most days, protected by an amber haze of numbed indifference that made everything—the demons, the apocalypse, the angels—all of it, a little more bearable.   
  
Self-medicating was a time-honored tradition of humanity, after all. Besides, it wasn't like he could pop by a pharmacy and pick up a prescription for antidepressants once a month.   
  
He wasn't the only one. Sam rarely went a night without a few beers or two fingers of whiskey to weight his eyelids. Bobby never went anywhere without his flask. Every other hunter on the board was good friends with the three amigos: Jack, Jameson, and Hennessy. It practically came with the job description.  
  
The point was, despite the occasional disapproving frown from his brother, Dean didn't waste a lot of time feeling guilty about his drinking habits. On any given day, he managed to toe the line between functioning alcoholism and stone cold sobriety with skilled precision. But not today. Today, every fuck he might have given had flown the coop. Sam wasn't around to criticize him, and he figured, even if they couldn't find him, the angels weren't about to let Michael's precious meat suit come to harm before the Big Showdown. So, he could probably get recklessly shitfaced and live.   
  
Fuck it. Even if he didn't, they'd probably just bring him right back.   
  
So, he was at a bar. Not just any bar either. After nearly 12 hours of driving, he had finally crawled into the divey-est bar on the longest street in the smallest town he could find. His memories of the slaughter at River Pass, Colorado were still pungent, but the faint, metallic taste of blood that had been lingering on his tongue was washed away with his first shot of whiskey.   
  
He played a few rounds of pool with some locals over a couple of beers but it was a weeknight, and the place started to empty out around midnight. With last call fast approaching, Dean did the sensible thing and ordered seven shots of their best bourbon, which he finished one after the other with hardly a breath in between. Then, he hung around a little while longer, listening to classic rock on the jukebox and sipping a glass of water the bartender shoved into his hands until the place closed.   
  
"You good to drive, buddy?" The bartender had good intentions, but from his pinched expression, Dean knew the guy just wanted to end his shift and go home, not worry about some drunk idiot from out of town.   
  
"No!" Dean responded with exuberance; his arms spread wide. "But s'ok, I got a ride—go home man."   
  
The bartender shrugged and locked the door, covered in band stickers and old adverts, behind them. Dean waited until the poor guy had driven away, waving nonchalantly from beneath the golden glow of the single street lamp over the parking lot, before sinking to his knees in a dramatized position of prayer.   
  
"OOOoooh Castiel, my buddy, my pal. It's a'me, Mario," he paused to snicker at his stupid joke before continuing, "You want to do me a solid and gimme a ride to my motel?"   
  
After a long moment of silence, he opened one eye and glanced around the empty parking lot. A familiar, sinking disappointment stirred in his chest before he remembered: Cas couldn't hear him. The Enochian marks on his rib cage ensured it. Grumbling at his stupidity, Dean clumsily dug his cell phone from his pocket.   
  
"If you had told me three years ago that I would have an angel on speed dial," he muttered as he hit ‘dial.' Castiel answered immediately.   
  
_"Dean."_  
  
That was it, no "hello" or any other form of greeting, just that same gruff tone saying his name. He could feel the dopey grin that split his face as soon as he heard it.   
  
"Cas I need a favor," he said. "I need to borrow your wings."   
  
There was a long pause on the other end of the line while the angel presumably tried to understand what the fuck he was talking about.   
  
_"Dean that's not—,"_   
  
"I need a ride," Dean cut him off, rolling his eyes. The guy was always so literal.   
  
_"I don't have a car,"_ Castiel replied slowly. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between the urge to burst out laughing and sigh with frustration.   
  
"I mean I need you to flap your way over here, do the tappy-tappy thing and bring me to my motel."   
  
_"....Where are you?"_  
  
He had hardly finished giving him the address of the bar and the motel before he heard the familiar whoosh of invisible wings folding behind him.   
  
"Dean, this is hardly an appropriate use of my time," the angel growled disapprovingly.   
  
Dean didn't bother to hide the wobble of drunkenness in his movements as he stood and spun to face his heavenly friend.   
  
"Caaaaaas," he drawled, throwing his arms wide and practically falling onto his companion in an approximation of a bear hug. "Good to see you, buddy," he mumbled into Castiel's shoulder.   
  
Anyone else likely would have stumbled under the sudden weight of a fully grown man hanging from their shoulders, but Cas was practically immovable. His physical inertia contrasted sharply with the feeling of his hands, which hovered uncertainly over Dean's ribs and waist—as if he wasn't quite sure whether he should return the gesture or rebuke it.   
  
"You smell like whiskey."   
  
Dean could feel the rumble of Castiel's voice against his chest.   
  
"Mmmhmm," he hummed in response. He put his hands on either side of Castiel's neck, his thumbs pressing into the rough texture of the other man's sharp jaw, and leaned back so that he could make a bleary attempt at looking him in the eyes. "Whiskey _and_ beer."   
  
"You're drunk," the angel replied. It was almost a question. His face had that intense, puzzled expression he made whenever Dean did something that defied his limited understanding of human behavior.   
  
"Ding ding ding," Dean crowed loudly, "That is correct, Captain Obvious! Stacy, tell him what he's won!"   
  
He spun away, gesturing to an imaginary crowd, ignoring the way Castiel's frown intensified.   
  
"Dean there's no one else—,"   
  
"I know that," Dean snapped. Even drunk, he already figured Cas wouldn't understand the reference. He never did. There was a sudden pang in his chest, the contraction of his heart around an abscess of absence, and he pulled a flask from his breast pocket to take a long swig.   
  
Castiel lifted his hands halfheartedly in a gesture of frustration. He cast his gaze around them at the empty parking lot, taking in the silent shadows and the dull orange glow of the street lamp, suffused with the fluttering shapes of summer insects that had been ensnared by the light. They were completely alone.  
  
"Where's Sam?" He said with forced patience.  
  
Dean spared him a withering glance. "He left," he said tersely, spinning the cap back onto the now half-empty flask.   
  
"What do you--,"   
  
"He's not here," Dean said sharply, rounding on his friend with a pointed finger, "so just drop it."   
  
He didn't like the way Castiel was looking at him. The expression was too soft, too understanding, too...sympathetic. He expected the argument to continue, maybe all he wanted was someone to yell at, but he blinked when Castiel reached out with two fingers—  
  
—and deposited them both in his motel room.   
  
Dean stumbled backward in surprise, nearly tripping over a chair that had suddenly appeared behind him.   
  
"Ok," he slurred, his tone chastising, "a little warning would have been nice."   
  
"Sorry," Castiel replied softly.   
  
Dean recovered from his stumble with admirable grace, considering his condition. He grabbed the back of the chair and sat down heavily in it, simultaneously kicking the other chair out from under the table and angling it toward the back of Castiel's knees.   
  
"S'fine," he said, palms up. "Take a seat, hang out for a minute."   
  
Castiel opened his mouth to protest but then hesitated, uncertainty drawing new lines in his furrowed brow. Dean sat back to enjoy watching him try to figure out what to do next. The idea that you could confound a celestial being never ceased to amuse him.   
  
At first, the realization that angels were just as fallible as humans had been terrifying. Knowing that the divine executors of the Lord's heavenly estates could make mistakes, succumb to corruption, and even go rogue had been nearly as traumatizing as discovering that they existed in the first place. It was one of the many things that kept him up at night. And yet, he would never get tired of watching Cas wrestle with the concept of his independence.   
  
_Making it up as we go_ , he thought fondly.   
  
"I should continue my search for God," he said, but there was none of his usual conviction behind it.   
  
Dean took a long draught from his flask, then held it out to Castiel.   
  
"Come on Cas; the old man can wait another minute or two, eh?"   
  
Castiel gave the flask a dubious look, his left eyebrow arching subtly in a way that could be consideration or disdain, it was hard to tell. After a long moment, wherein Dean swayed visibly in his chair, the angel took the proffered drink, put it to his lips, threw his head back and emptied it. Dean slapped his thigh and let out a raucous laugh of approval.   
  
"Well damn, look at you! I bet that didn't even phase you did it?"   
  
Castiel wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and handed the flask back to Dean with a neutral expression. He didn't even flinch at what must have been a serious afterburn on his tongue.  
  
"Not really, no."   
  
Dean nudged the chair across from him expectantly with his foot. Castiel sank into it reluctantly.   
  
"Can you even get drunk? How much would it actually take?" Dean asked skeptically. "Ya know, for science."   
  
"A considerable amount," Castiel replied, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Dean blinked in surprise.   
  
"Wow, I was honestly expecting the answer to be," he pitched his voice low and said, "‘Angels don't get drunk, Dean. We're heavenly beings; we cannot be intoxicated by earthly means.'"   
  
Castiel seemed to consider for a moment. "Technically, you would be correct. Before I was cut off from Heaven, I could empty every bottle in this state and still not reach the level of inebriation that you are currently experiencing, but I would be very unsteady."   
  
Dean was chuckling as he said, "Wait, wait, wait, new question—Have you, Angel Nerd of the Heavenly Empire, ever been shitfaced?"   
  
Cas made a face, the one that lingered somewhere between annoyance and infinite patience with Dean's constant teasing. Sometimes it was apparent that he was in no mood to tolerate his human ward's flippancy. Lately, he'd been short-tempered and sullen more often than not. It was probably all the added stress of defying heaven and going rogue to help him and his brother prevent the end of the world. Or something like that.   
  
Castiel's eyes dropped to his hands, held loosely together between his knees, and a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lip.   
  
"Actually yes," he said slowly. "Once. A long time ago."   
  
Dean waited a moment with the empty flask held loosely in his fingers. Then,   
  
" _Well_? Care to elaborate?"  
  
Castiel's eyes darted his way, the tip of his tongue quickly skating over his upper lip in a gesture that Dean had come to recognize as nervousness. He sat back in his chair with a huff and sternly said, "No."  
  
Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes at the curt reply. Typical Cas. His head fell back, and the flask hovered over his open mouth for a moment, relinquishing a final drop of liquor. Remembering that it was empty, Dean tossed it disdainfully onto the nearby table.   
  
"Tell you what," he said, putting his foot on a rung of Castiel's chair. "I'll tell you about my first time if you tell me about yours."   
  
It looked like the angel was considering the offer for a moment, but then he stood. "No, it's not something I want to talk about," he said darkly, making a cutting gesture with his hand. "I should go. I need to continue my search."  
  
Dean jerked to his feet to put a placating hand on his friend's shoulder. As if he could hold him there. As if his touch would ever be enough to keep Castiel in one place.   
  
"Wait, wait, wait, don't take off on me yet," he said unsteadily. For a second he couldn't do much more than hang onto Cas and hope for the best. Changing position so suddenly had been a mistake. It was only his fingers, digging into the familiar trench coat, that kept him from pitching over backward.   
  
When the world had finally stopped swaying, he glanced at Castiel, who was watching him with thinly veiled bemusement.   
  
"You should probably lie down," he said, not unkindly. Dean childishly blew a raspberry in reply.   
  
"And do what? Sleep?"  
  
Castiel seemed perplexed. "You're not an angel Dean; you need to sleep."   
  
Like an exasperated teenager, Dean threw his entire body into the eye roll this time and groaned, "Yeah thanks, mom. Good looking out. You know, if I pass out now, I could...I could throw up and choke to death in my sleep. You want that on your conscience?"   
  
He could feel the angel's eyes on his back as he stepped past him to sit on the edge of the bed. Dean wasn't ready to lay down and face all the things that lurked in the shadows of his own mind, so sleep was still out of the question. However, standing for too long was beginning to require some serious effort. He could feel his rowdy buzz building into something sloppy as each of the shots he'd had at the bar started to metabolize, one by one. The good ol' bliss of a blackout was coming.   
  
"Dean," Castiel's voice was gentle. "What is this about?"   
  
He wanted to resent the angel for looking at him like that, with his eyes all blue and practically welling up with compassion. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to reject his sympathy and hide all the hurt behind a petty conflict. But he couldn't. It would be pointless to even try. Castiel might not be able to understand pop culture references or Dean's sense of humor, but he did have a downright frustrating knack for knowing what Dean was feeling. Most of the time he assumed it was an angel thing, but sometimes...sometimes it felt like just a "Cas" thing.  
  
"I just...ya know, I—," Dean grit his teeth, frustrated by the way his tongue tied itself in knots around the words. Why were these things always so fucking hard to say? "I don't....want to be alone...right now." Whatever vulnerability he had managed to squeeze out of himself evaporated immediately, replaced by embarrassed chagrin. "There," he snapped, spreading his hands. "Are you happy now?"   
  
The question seemed to confuse him.   
  
"No, I'm concerned," he said with guileless honesty. Dean couldn't help but laugh which only prompted Castiel to give him a mildly accusing, quizzical look and complain, "I don't see how that's funny."   
  
Dean wiped his eyes and then vigorously rubbed his palms over his face. "Aww man," he said fondly, "Honestly, neither do I." He sighed and patted the bed beside him. "So? Will you stay? At least until I pass out?"   
  
Castiel's lips parted. He took a deep breath. Dean almost expected him to simply vanish, without even replying. The guy was like Batman, he came and went with a "whoosh" and never bothered to give you a proper goodbye.   
  
He was surprised when the angel stepped forward and sat down beside him without saying a word.   
  
"Cool," Dean said softly.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Wakefulness came on suddenly, but his mind was slow to accept the transition. For a while, he merely laid there in darkness, dreading the moment when he would have to move. He could already tell: the hangover was going to be vicious. In fact, he was pretty sure he was still drunk.    
  
Instead of getting up, he dug himself deeper into the warm weight of blankets and pillows around him, ignoring the way his stomach rolled at the slightest movement. This was a pretty nice motel, he thought sleepily. The blankets were heavy, the pillows were numerous, and they smelled like—   
  
He lifted his head and cracked one eye open to look at what he was actually laying on. Unless he was mistaken, his pillow was wearing a button down shirt and a tie.    
  
Castiel was  _ still _ there. Dean swung his gaze toward the window and saw the thin line of sunlight streaming in through the curtains. He had stayed all  _ night _ .    
  
Though he racked his brain to try and remember what the rest of the evening had been like, it remained a pitch dark mystery. Castiel's eyes were closed, his breathing steady. One hand rested on his chest, and the other was wrapped loosely around Dean's shoulders. He was still wearing his trademark suit and tie, but the trench coat and suit jacket had been abandoned over the back of a chair. His necktie hung loosely over his chest, and the top four buttons of his shirt were undone.    
  
With a start, Dean realized his amulet—the one Castiel had "borrowed" to search for God—was resting in the hollow of Cas's throat. He wasn't sure why it captured his attention so dramatically. Surely it was just a practical choice to wear the amulet while he searched. And yet, Dean felt a peculiar lurch in his stomach at the sight that was very different from the rolling nausea of a hangover.    
  
"I can fix it if you want me to."    
  
Castiel's voice almost made him jump. Angels, even fallen ones, don't sleep. Of course.    
  
"Fix what?" He groaned. He felt like he should extricate himself from Castiel's arm, but the bed wasn't very large, and every little movement made his head pound. He couldn't even bring himself to roll over. He let his head fall back onto the angel's chest.    
  
"Your hangover," Castiel's voice was soft in the shadows.     
  
"I thought you couldn't heal anything without your angel-mojo."   
  
"I can manage."    
  
"You've been here all night," Dean said instead.    
  
"You were adamant that I stay," the reply rumbled against his cheek and without thinking, Dean pulled the angel closer with an arm around his waist. There was a pause. Castiel held his breath. Then it escaped him with a gentle sigh.    
  
"Never stopped you before," Dean mumbled. "You're an angel, you do whatever you want."    
  
Castiel exhaled sharply, and his chest shook once with wry laughter. "That's hardly true. Besides, you made a compelling argument. Something about making sure you didn't choke on vomit in your sleep."    
  
Dean snorted. "Well, thanks for making sure I survived," he said sarcastically. "How long have I been out?"    
  
"Not long," came the murmured reply. If he didn't know better, Dean would have said the angel sounded sleepy.    
  
"You didn't have to get in bed with me, you know," he said, his tone accusatory.    
  
"You were adamant about that, too."    
  
Dean raised his head to look at Castiel's face with pinched suspicion. "I made you get into bed with me?"    
  
Castiel opened his eyes for the first time since Dean had woken up, revealing a sliver of slate blue under a fan of dark lashes. His expression was impassive.    
  
"Yes— _ and _ you promised you wouldn't be angry with me for it in the morning," he said pointedly.    
  
Dean pursed his lips in a thoughtful frown. "Doesn't sound like me at all," he said with as much impudence as he could muster. He let his head fall back to Castiel's chest. "What did we do last night, anyway?"    
  
Was he imagining it, or did the heartbeat beneath his cheek pick up speed?   
  
"How much do you remember?"    
  
"Honestly, next to nothing. I was barely on my feet when I called you," he replied. "...Thanks, by the way."    
  
"Don't mention it," Castiel said softly. There was the rustle of fabric, and Dean felt the cool touch of Cas's fingers against his throat. His hangover vanished.    
  
He sat up quickly, suddenly finding the motivation to slip out of his friend's embrace. He rubbed his neck. Castiel's touch felt like peppermint oil on his skin. It left a cool tingle behind.    
  
"Not that I'm not grateful but what did you do that for?"    
  
"It seemed prudent," he said carefully.    
  
Dean climbed the rest of the way out of bed. He chose to ignore the fact that, at some point in the night, he'd been divested of everything but his black henley and a pair of boxers. He stretched and got a good whiff of his own armpits, grimacing.    
  
"Yeah well, I still smell like a drunk," he said dryly. "I'm gonna take a shower."    
  
He grabbed his toiletry kit from his bag, the weight of Castiel's gaze following him around the room. When he stepped into the bathroom, he called through the door, "Hey what do you think about coming with me for breakfast?"    
  
When there was no response, Dean knew what he would find. He poked his head out anyways. The room was empty. Cas was gone.    
  
"Like Batman," Dean sighed.    
  
  


* * *

  
  
_ ~ _ _   
_ _ Earlier  _ _   
_ _ ~ _ _   
_   
Angels didn't experience time in the same minute increments that mortals did. Castiel had existed for centuries and, if God had anything to say about it, apparently he would continue to live for hundreds more. Long silences had never had an effect on him. He could spend hours in one place without succumbing to such petty intrusions as boredom or discomfort.    
  
However, he could sense that Dean didn't have the same capability to withstand stillness.    
  
"So...what should we do?"    
  
Castiel glanced to his right, where Dean sat beside him, occasionally swaying into his shoulder.   
  
"I have no idea," he replied flatly.    
  
"You're thinking about putting me to sleep right now, aren't you?" Dean said, nudging him in the bicep with a finger.    
  
"The thought had crossed my mind," Castiel admitted. He was accustomed to things like silence and stillness. Dean, drunk and lonely, was not something he knew how to handle. Part of him was sorely tempted to simply touch his companion and send him to a restful slumber so that he could continue his search for his Father.    
  
But, somehow, he understood that to do so would violate the unspoken thing within their relationship. Dean had called him here for help with...something, but he sensed that a good night's sleep wasn't it. Though he had a lot of endurance for a human, Dean was visibly very drunk, and so Castiel was prepared to wait until he finally succumbed to unconsciousness. It surely wouldn't be long now.     
  
"Know any card games?" Dean said, struggling to focus on his face.   
  
"You don't have any cards," Castiel pointed out passively.    
  
"Shit. TV doesn't work either," he mumbled. Suddenly his face split with a wicked grin that would have definitely gotten an  _ "Oh no"  _ from Sam if he were there. Castiel, unfortunately, was not savvy enough to know what he was in for. That being said, he had learned by now to expect the unexpected from Dean Winchester.    
  
"....What?" he asked apprehensively.    
  
"I have an idea," Dean replied impishly. "A game. Haven't played it since  _ high school _ ."   
  
A human children's game should not have seemed threatening, and yet Dean's mischievous expression made him hesitate.    
  
"What kind of game?"    
  
"Ah-ah, first thing's first. I don't want you dipping out on me, so you gotta promise you'll stay and follow the rules."    
  
Dean held his pinky out to him. Castiel looked at it, then at him, with evident confusion.    
  
"It's a pinky promise, you nerd," Dean explained as if that should be enough to clarify the concept. When Cas continued to look at his outstretched hand blankly, Dean sighed and grabbed his right hand. He forcibly positioned the angel's fingers into the same pose then hooked their pinkies together. "See?"    
  
"What does it mean?"    
  
"It means you promise you'll stay and play the game and follow the rules," Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.    
  
"What kind of game is this?" Castiel murmured urgently. He didn't like agreeing to things without understanding what it was he was agreeing to. Surely a human game for children shouldn't require an oath to commit the players to finishing it.    
  
"It's called," Dean said, standing and spreading his arms, "TRUTH or DARE!"    
  
Castiel's eyebrows knitted downward.    
  
"What are the rules?" he asked seriously.    
  
Dean grinned. It was the kind of charming, carefree smile that Castiel rarely saw from him. He felt a peculiar kind of lightness within him at the sight. He liked seeing Dean smile, he realized. Perhaps because it was something the hunter rarely had occasion to do.    
  
"Sir, I am glad you asked," Dean replied, "The game is simple. We take turns. Normally it'd be a bigger group than just the two of us, but we can make do. Here, I'll start."    
  
He cleared his throat and then held his hand out toward Castiel with a little bow. "All right Cas, you choose: truth….or dare?" He grinned again, raising one eyebrow, obviously challenging him to pick the second option.    
  
"Why?"    
  
"Just pick one, you dork."    
  
Castiel had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Maybe the others were right. Perhaps he was spending too much time with Dean. Of course, it was a bit late to turn back now.   
  
"I pick truth."    
  
"Fine, but I hope you know that you are now honor bound to answer my next question with absolute honesty," Dean huffed. Cas was caught off-guard when Dean suddenly burst out laughing. "Wow, I wish you could see your face when I said that," he added.    
  
Castiel pressed his lips together disapprovingly and silently prayed that Dean wouldn't ask him anything he couldn't answer. It never occurred to him that he wasn't  _ actually _ honor bound to reply truthfully. As far as he was concerned an oath was an oath, even if he didn't understand the method behind it.    
  
"OK, OK what to ask…," Dean crossed his arms and rubbed a finger absently over his lower lip. Castiel found himself strangely fascinated by the gesture. Suddenly, the hunter snapped his fingers and said, "I got it. All right angel boy time to tell the truth: when did you get plastered?"    
  
Castiel blinked, tilting his head questioningly. "No one has ever covered me in plaster."    
  
Dean's palm hit his forehead with a *thwack* and dragged down the side of his cheek. "Like talking to a djinn," he sighed, "gotta word everything just right. ‘Plastered' as in drunk, Cas."    
  
"Oh. 64 BC," he said simply.   
  
"...and?"    
  
"And what? You asked me ‘when,' that was when," Cas replied stoically. Dean sighed, but Castiel cut him off before he could press for more. "Now it's my turn to ask you if I'm not mistaken."    
  
Dean squinted at him suspiciously for a moment, considering the question. "Why do I feel like if I pick ‘dare,' you'll tell me to go to bed?"    
  
"Is that an option?" Castiel said, looking up hopefully.    
  
"No," he said warmly. "I'm not a coward, so I'm gonna go with dare."    
  
"Now what happens?"    
  
"You dare me to do something."    
  
"Like what?" Castiel asked earnestly.    
  
"Honestly, anything Cas," Dean replied with mild irritation.    
  
Castiel considered his options. If he understood the game, then he could technically dare Dean to go to bed, but it was unlikely the hunter would acquiesce. In fact, he was certain all he would get for his trouble would be another eye roll and some kind of insult that equated Cas with a child. When Dean had offered him the flask, he had emptied it mainly to prevent his companion from getting any drunker. It stood to reason that he might not be allowed to dare Dean to go to bed, but he could potentially guide him in that direction.    
  
"OK, I dare you to get dressed for bed," he said breezily.    
  
Dean stared at him for a moment, caught off guard. "You want me to—, seriously?"    
  
Cas splayed his hands and shrugged.    
  
"Fine.  _ Fine, _ " Dean muttered as he unbuckled his belt. "Teach me to play truth or dare with a friggin angel." He untied his boots and kicked them off, then shucked his jeans and tossed them on the floor. When he finished, he held his hands out at his sides with an impertinent glare and asked, "There, happy?"    
  
"Yes," Cas replied evenly. "You'll be more comfortable when you lose consciousness."    
  
Dean mimicked the angel and grumbled something under his breath. Castiel chose to ignore it.    
  
"All right you're up again, nerd. Truth or dare?"    
  
"Truth," Cas said again, without hesitation. It seemed like the safest option so far. There was a long pause while Dean presumably considered his options.    
  
"Ok it's a high school game so let's ask some high school questions," he said, grinning wickedly again. "Are you a virgin?"    
  
"This vessel isn't."    
  
"Obviously," Dean said, his tone exasperated. "I'm talking about you: Castiel, the glowy essence inside the body. Have you ever slept with anyone before? And when I say ‘slept,' I mean  _ sex _ , Cas."    
  
"I....no," he said sheepishly. His left leg began to bounce. He stilled it with a hand on his knee and shifted uncomfortably on the motel bed.    
  
"WHAT," Dean exclaimed. "Like, not even a kiss?" Castiel shook his head. "Not even a...a...a freaking  _ hickey _ ?"    
  
Castiel frowned in confusion. "What's a ‘hickey'?"    
  
Dean was laughing at him now. "You'll find out when you're older," he said, practically through tears.    
  
Although he didn't understand the joke, Cas could tell when he was being made fun of. It irritated him. Castiel had been alive for millennia, he'd been captain of a Heavenly garrison, and yet Dean Winchester treated him like a child at every turn. It needled his pride, which was all the more upsetting given that an angel shouldn't be so easily goaded into sinning.    
  
And Pride, of course, was one of the big seven.    
  
"Truth or dare," he snapped.    
  
He had Dean's attention immediately. "Dare," he responded defiantly.    
  
"Show me what a ‘hickey' is."    
  
Admittedly, the opened-mouthed look of shock that overtook Dean's face at that moment was worth it. He assumed it would involve a quick search on the ‘laptop' the humans used to obtain information. However, Dean's expression quickly transitioned into something wolfish, and Castiel began to worry that perhaps he'd made a mistake.    
  
"Stand up," the hunter commanded.    
  
Castiel, ever the good soldier, did as he was told. He didn't flinch when Dean approached him, stopping only when they were separated by bare inches. The angel watched his eyes, searching for some clue as to what would happen next. They were so close he could smell the whiskey on Dean's breath.    
  
When Dean grabbed the lapels of his coat and threw him up against the wall, he didn't resist. He was shoved against the wood paneling hard enough that his head bounced when he connected with it. Dean immediately stripped the trench coat from his shoulders with force, tossing it onto the back of the chair beside them. He didn't stop there, reaching for the dark suit jacket next. Castiel allowed the hunter to strip his outer garments with an expression of focused curiosity.    
  
Dean slowed down when he loosened Cas's tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. Green eyes met his in surprise when the third button revealed Dean's pendant, hanging just below his collarbones.    
  
"You're wearing it?"    
  
"I didn't want to lose it," Cas said gently. It wasn't entirely accurate, but he figured since this question wasn't part of the game, he was at liberty to conceal the full truth behind his decision to wear the necklace. It was simple really. He liked the weight of it around his neck. It made him feel less alone.    
  
Dean undid another button and then pushed the collar of his shirt away from his neck. Castiel suppressed a shiver at the feeling of his hands, rough and warm, brushing over the sensitive skin of his throat. With his other hand, Dean gently held Cas's chin.    
  
"Do you trust me?" Dean's voice was low and ardent.    
  
Those verdant eyes were always fiery—full of anger, indignation, conviction, pride and a hundred other emotions that had been forged in the furnace of his beautifully righteous soul. Castiel had met them all without flinching. This time, however, this time meeting Dean's eyes filled him with a heat that he didn't understand. He felt a tremor of uncertainty at the intensity there.    
  
"Yes," he said softly.    
  
Their staring contest was broken when Dean used the grip on his chin to tilt Cas's head up and away. Then he licked his lips, inhaled, and dove for Castiel's neck.    
  
Cas realized then that he'd been holding his breath. He meant to exhale, but it escaped him as a faint gasp. He hadn't expected to react like this. Rarely did the sensations of his vessel have much effect on him. Things like pain and hunger and exhaustion were easily filtered out of his stream of consciousness. It was just a vessel, after all. And yet, since he had been cast out by his brethren, he had found the physicality of existing inside a living body somewhat more...in focus.   
  
A shiver ran rampant down his spine. The feeling of Dean's mouth on his throat was electric. When he felt teeth scrape against his skin, his hands jumped up to the hunter's shoulders, as if to push him away. Dean opened his mouth wider and bit down, evenly spreading the pressure of his teeth. When he began to suck, Cas rewarded him with a soft, surprised moan. The sound seemed to spur something in Dean because his left hand slipped down to Castiel's waist and roughly pulled their hips together, while his lips continued to work on his neck.    
  
Cas allowed his eyes to slide closed, sinking into the feeling of Dean's tongue moving against the indentations of his teeth. The smell of whiskey and cologne blanketed him completely. Dean pushed him further against the wall, pressing his thigh between Castiel's legs. When he bit down again, Cas's breath hitched in response, fingers digging into Dean's shoulders.    
  
"Relax," Dean murmured against his throat, slick and sensitive from his ministrations. His other hand gripped Castiel's chin again, arching his neck further and giving him more room to work in. Cas whimpered faintly as the sucking sensation returned.    
  
When Dean finally pulled back to examine his work, Castiel's knees were shaking.    
  
"There," Dean said, seemingly  _ very _ pleased with himself. Castiel turned slowly to stare at him, trying to catch his breath and retain a little dignity. Dean smirked at him. "You've got your first hickey."    
  
Cas reached for his neck, still staring at Dean with bewildered uncertainty. Dean chuckled and grabbed his bicep. The angel allowed himself to be led to the mirror that hung on the wall on the other side of the TV. He was stunned to see a large purple bruise blossoming on his throat.    
  
"You  _ marked _ me," Castiel said gruffly. He could see Dean's smug reflection grinning at him. He pivoted on his heel, and Dean immediately held up both hands defensively.    
  
"You asked me to," he said, laughing. Cas took a step toward him, and Dean stepped back, suddenly uneasy. "Hey, hey whoa, you're not…mad right?"    
  
Castiel tilted his head as if considering the question. "It's your turn," he said evenly.    
  
"Wh-what?" Dean's face was nervously dumbfounded.    
  
"The game," Cas said. "It's your turn."    
  
Dean swallowed. "Right, yeah uh truth or dare…?"    
  
"Dare," Cas replied firmly.    
  
"You know I could ask you to do anything," he warned.    
  
"Yes, I believe I understand the concept now."    
  
"Ok I dare you to  _ not _ hit me," he said with a lopsided grin. "Sound fair?"    
  
"I wasn't going to," Castiel frowned, rubbing his neck. His whole body felt strange. Why was he so lightheaded?    
  
"Right, right," Dean replied. He ran a hand through his hair saying, "I dare you to do it back, ok? Then we're even." When Castiel only responded by glaring quizzically at him, Dean sighed and pointed to the side of his throat. "The...the thing, you can do it back. If you want. Or not—,"    
  
"I don't understand how you did this," Castiel grumbled, pointing to the ever-darkening mark on his throat.    
  
"What? It's not that complicated, you just suck on one spot until—Jesus I'm explaining how to give a hickey to an angel," the hunter rubbed his face vigorously. "Look, just do it all right?" He pulled his shirt away from his neck, offering Castiel his throat.    
  
Cas turned to the mirror, running his fingers over the bruise. He could still see Dean's teeth marks around the edges. It wasn't that complicated. Yet the idea filled him with nervous energy. When he turned back, Dean was watching him expectantly. 

  
"Come on, don't keep a girl waiting," he taunted with a smirk. "Oh  _ shit _ —,"    
  
The insolent expression quickly disappeared when Castiel grabbed him by the front of his shirt and threw him against the wall. His head bounced. Dean winced, then chuckled.    
  
"Cas you didn't have to throw me," he said, gently putting his hands on Castiel's wrists. The angel's fists were still twisted in his shirt.    
  
"You threw me," Cas replied with genuine confusion.    
  
"Well yeah," Dean said, shrugging. "But it's not required."    
  
"Well...now we're even," he replied thoughtfully.    
  
"Fair," he said, making a face. "Now are you gonna get this over with or not?"    
  
Castiel's eyes dropped down to the exposed skin of Dean's throat. He could see the faint jump of his pulse. It was racing. Gently, he disentangled his hands from Dean's shirt and smoothed it over his pectoral muscles, up to his shoulders, moving with the kind of slow consideration one might use to calm a nervous animal. He felt a tremor go through the hunter's entire body at his touch.    
  
He looked up and found Dean watching him with that same intensity from before.    
  
"We don't have to do this," Castiel offered.    
  
"Fair's fair," he replied in a low, burning tone.    
  
They locked eyes for a long moment. Castiel struggled to understand Dean's motivations for daring him to do this. He understood human sexuality enough to know that the hunter primarily sought sexual attention from women and was often uncomfortable with the idea of giving or receiving such attention from men. Yet, his dilated pupils, the thundering of his heart in his chest, and the heady scent of attraction on his skin gave every indication that, in this moment, he  _ desired _ Castiel.    
  
"As you wish," the angel murmured. Dean's eyes slid closed as he leaned forward and gently laid his mouth against the hunter's neck.    
  
He could feel the stutter in the pulse against his lips. He opened his mouth experimentally, teasing the skin beneath with his tongue. The sharp intake of breath from Dean brought a lurch to his stomach, and without thinking, he bit down.    
  
"Ah—," Dean put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him back far enough that they could lock eyes again. "Bite me, don't nip me."    
  
"What?"    
  
"You gotta open your mouth wider, spread out the pressure, so it doesn't hurt," he said grumpily. Castiel felt his face flush. Unfortunately, Dean noticed it too. "Wait, are you...blushing?"    
  
"Shut up," Castiel growled. He grabbed the hunter's chin and turned his face away, exposing a better angle on his throat.    
  
This time when he leaned in, he laid his open mouth against Dean's skin. He applied pressure slowly with his teeth, trying to determine how much was too much. He knew he'd gotten it right when Dean's hand leapt up to grab hold of his bicep with a sharp inhale. Then, Dean actually  _ moaned _ , and Castiel found himself overtaken by a decidedly primal instinct. He pressed forward, gripping the hunter's waist, and swirled his tongue over the marks his teeth left behind.    
  
He wasn't sure how long he should suck on the one spot for a proper bruise to form. But, when he leaned back to check his work, he saw that it had worked fairly quickly. And well. A deep red mark had formed on Dean’s throat, and it was getting darker as he looked at it. He smiled, oddly satisfied by his success. When he glanced up into Dean's eyes, the hunter's face had a flushed, vacant expression. Before he had a chance to say anything, Dean lunged forward, grabbing either side of Castiel's face and dragging him into an impulsive kiss.    
  
Cas had never kissed anyone before. He'd had union with other angels, but it was hardly the same thing as a physical, sexual encounter. Some angels enjoyed having human sex in their vessels, but he'd never had reason or opportunity to try it. It just wasn't important.    
  
Now he began to understand the appeal.    
  
He wasn't sure how he was expected to respond, at first. Dean's hands were hot, and his fingers trembled slightly before curling tightly in the hair at the nape of Castiel's neck. The other hand trailed down his side and held his waist. He used his grip to tilt Cas's head back and pull his hips forward, deepening the kiss. Dean's tongue brushed over his lips, and they parted willingly.    
  
Dean tasted like whiskey. Castiel didn't mind.    
  
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless.    
  
"I'm sorry," Dean said unsteadily. "I—I shouldn't have, you've never, and I've never—, and you're a—,"    
  
"Male?" Castiel said bluntly. He wasn’t male, not really. Gender was a physical construct that only affected him as far as his vessel was concerned. Still, the body he inhabited was male, and it seemed this would be the most likely aspect of the kiss to fluster Dean Winchester.    
  
"An angel," Dean panted. "You're a friggin angel, and I just jumped you like—"   
  
"Should I do it back?" Castiel asked seriously, though his small smile belied the fact that he was teasing. "So that we're even?"    
  
"You're not angry?" Dean swayed in place, and Castiel realized that holding onto him and leaning against the wall were the only things keeping the hunter on his feet. His face was flushed, and his lips were swollen, still slick from the kiss.    
  
"No," Cas replied. "That was unexpected but enjoyable."    
  
Dean let himself fall forward and laid his head on Cas's shoulder, apparently relieved.    
  
"Thought for sure I was about to get smote….smoted? Smited?...Smitten?" He snaked his arms around Castiel's waist and buried his face in the space where his neck and shoulder met. "I think I'm ready to lay down now."    
  
Castiel guided his companion to the motel bed with an arm around his shoulder. Dean kept both hands around Cas's waist which made the few steps to the bed somewhat difficult but Cas didn't mind. When he lowered Dean to the mattress, the hunter used his hold on the angel's midsection to drag him into the bed with him.    
  
"Dean—," Cas protested as he was forcibly positioned beside him. "I don't think you'll want me here...like this by morning. I should go now."    
  
"Stay," Dean murmured hotly against the bruise on his neck. "Please. I won't be mad, I promise."    
  
"...As you wish," Cas said softly.    
  
Dean answered with a faint snore. He was already asleep. The bruise on his neck had deepened to a vibrant shade of plum. He still didn’t understand why they called such a thing a ‘hickey’ but he approved. He was almost disappointed that Dean’s mark on his own throat would be gone before morning.    
  
Castiel closed his eyes, drinking in the sensation of Dean's lips against his skin. He replayed the kiss in his mind and the way Dean had looked at him. It had been more than desire. It had been like…craving, like...hunger. He'd never truly known what it felt like to be wanted like that before now.    
  
He decided he liked the feeling.    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
